Pam Jenoff - The Winter Guest

Across the table, Michal’s hazel eyes met hers. He had been born with wisdom beyond his years and had never gone through a childish phase. Though she did not believe in such things, it sometimes seemed as though he was an old soul who had seen all of this a thousand times before, and his understanding of the world made him somber. The day she’d almost taken the leaving path, Michal had peered at her deeply when she returned, as if aware of her near-transgression. He was staring at Helena now in a way that made her wonder if he had read her mind and knew about the soldier at the church. But of course, that was impossible.

She reached across the table and put her hand on his. He looked up, surprised at her rare display of affection. Perhaps more so than the girls, it was Michal to whom she was closest and had tried to shield. It had not always been that way—at first, she’d hated him. “A boy,” Tata had announced the day Michal was born, his face beaming with pride. Then six, Helena looked at the tiny infant with a mix of resentment and love. He would grow into the son who would take her place as their father’s favorite. Over the years, she had fought to stay stronger and more useful, always a step ahead, even as Michal grew taller.

One morning when she was twelve, she’d awakened to a squawk of dismay as Tata pulled her six-year-old brother from his bed for his first hunting trip. Jealousy nagged at her—before Michal, it had been she who had accompanied Tata on his dark forays into the cold woods to set traps and shoot deer. Now he had his son. But Michal sat on the floor, skin white and eyes wide as their father tugged at his collar, trying to force him to his feet. Michal looked up at her imploringly. He had always loved animals, had all but stopped eating meat as a child once he’d realized where it came from. Tata loomed over him, unwilling to be dissuaded. “Come,” she said, helping Michal to dress. Tata did not object when she tagged along, holding her brother’s hand as they trudged wordlessly through the dark, still woods.

There was nothing to be caught that day. When they had returned home, Tata stomped into the barn and emerged holding a flailing chicken by the neck. “Kill it,” he instructed Michal, unwilling to be placated until the lesson was complete. The boy stood back, trembling. Several seconds passed. “Do it.” Tears streamed down Michal’s cheeks.

Helena stepped forward and grabbed the chicken from her father, snapping its neck beneath the warm feathers with one swift movement. Her eyes met Tata’s defiantly and for a moment she feared he was going to return to the barn to get another chicken, their last, for Michal to kill. But he had simply walked away. “Come,” she’d said again to her brother. Together they went to clean the bird, Helena gently but persistently showing him how to remove the feathers and separate the bones.

It was perhaps hardest on him now, Helena reflected as the memory cleared. Michal was old enough to remember faint glimpses of the happiness that had once been theirs, not like Dorie and Karolina, who didn’t know what they had missed. But he had been too young to understand why it had all gone away, leaving him alone in a house full of girls.

“Here.” Helena pushed the rest of her bread toward him, trying to ignore her stomach, which grumbled in protest. As she did, she noticed a stain on her sleeve left by spilled milk and cereal.

Michal hesitated, then devoured the bread in two bites, hardly bothering to chew. “May I be excused?”

“No,” said Ruth.

“Yes,” said Helena in near-unison, their voices clashing against each other. They looked at each other uneasily. It was a tacit understanding that, despite their differences, they would not disagree in front of the children. For all of the hard times, she could not recall her parents quarreling, at least not when they thought the children could hear, and she and Ruth had tried to maintain that unified front. But the sisters seemed to differ more of late, their opposition laid bare for the children to see.

“Yes,” Ruth relented quickly. “Check on the animals, will you?”

“Come on, Dorie,” Michal said, holding out his hand.

Dorie followed him, her gait stilted. Her right leg had grown more slowly and was now an inch shorter than her left, causing her to her limp. “It will even out,” Mama had predicted optimistically when Dorie had started walking and the problem first became apparent. But the difference had become more pronounced with time.

Last spring, Helena had cut down a block of wood and affixed it to Dorie’s right shoe to compensate. It worked, and the limp had been all but gone when she had worn it. But a day later, Dorie had pulled the wood from her shoe. “It just doesn’t feel right.” Around the house, her limp had become so much a part of things they scarcely noticed it. As Helena watched Dorie hobble now along Michal’s long, foal-like gait, she seemed so vulnerable.

Michal and Dorie bounded through the door, spurred by the brisk morning air, their two heads bobbing auburn. Helena opened the shutters to let in the light. Ruth kept the children immaculate, Helena conceded inwardly. Their clothes were not torn or stained, the darned bits hidden so well they could scarcely be seen. She brushed their teeth with baking soda each night, insisted that their baths be thorough. Helena sometimes wondered why she bothered when they so seldom saw anyone but one another.

Outside the children ran in circles, Michal pretending to exert himself but really going much slower than he might have, allowing Dorie to catch him and feel that she was doing well. They chased a chipmunk around the yard, nearly colliding into the dwindling woodpile as the animal ducked beneath. Watching them play together, Helena was flooded with pride—despite their thinness and simple clothing, there was a light about them, a kind of strength other children did not possess. And they had a way of instinctively protecting each other, always had, even before they could walk or speak.

Was it different for them somehow because they weren’t twins? Helena wondered. With her and Ruth, it had always been a competition, who had spoken first (Ruth) and walked first (Helena), and later who was prettier, smarter, could sew or cook better. But it wasn’t any easier having older or younger siblings, she supposed, someone always ahead of you in the queue or behind in the scramble for food or attention. It was the plight of being one of many. Big families were the norm in these parts, even families like their own that could ill-afford them.

As the children disappeared into the barn, she smiled at Michal’s awkwardness, the way he had not quite grown into the long legs and broad shoulders he’d inherited from their father. “I heard something at market the other day,” Ruth said in a hushed tone, even though only little Karolina was there to hear them. Helena’s breath caught. Had Ruth learned—or somehow guessed—about the soldier? Guilt nagged at her suddenly. Until now, she always told Ruth everything. Yet this time something had held her back. It was as if, by discovering the man in the woods, she had taken a step apart from her siblings.

Helena licked her lips. “What is it?”

“The Garzels disappeared—Pani Kowalska said maybe they were arrested.”

Helena’s brow arched. “She said that?”

Ruth bristled. “Well, she didn’t exactly say it, but she suggested that was the case.”

Helena waved her hand dismissively. “Just silly gossip from an old woman with too much time on her hands.”

Ruth tried again. “She said that they arrested the Jews in Nowy S˛acz, too. People couldn’t make up such awful things from whole cloth, could they? There must be some truth to it.” She sounded as if she really needed Helena to believe her.